


oh, the things we invent when we are scared and want to be rescued

by behradtarazi



Category: Titans (TV 2018)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen, Hank Hall Needs a Hug, Pedophilia, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Assault, also therapy. so much therapy, so please mind the tags, so this fic contains, this is a deep dive into hank's trauma, very dark fic please be careful and take care of yourself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:28:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23376913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behradtarazi/pseuds/behradtarazi
Summary: He uses his body like a battering ram, and hopes it’s enough to stop being beautiful. He doesn’t want to be beautiful. He doesn’t want to be desired. He doesn’t want anybody wanting him.-Hank Hall has too much unaddressed trauma.
Relationships: Hank Hall & Donny Hall
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	oh, the things we invent when we are scared and want to be rescued

Hank doesn’t believe in much anymore. No, not anymore.

He spent a childhood believing, hoping and praying for some kind of rescue, some kind of hero, but God knows his childhood didn’t last long.

Everybody has a breaking point. Everybody. They always warn you about that.

Nobody ever warns you about what it’s like after you pass it.

You’re not broken.

You’re not broken, because you’re still walking and talking and breathing and even smiling sometimes, and Hank hasn’t heard of any broken things that can do that, though maybe some nights he thinks that he might be the first.

But he isn’t - he’s not - he’s not sure.

He’s not sure.

He isn’t broken, but he’s cracked, maybe. Hurting. Hollow. Angry.

There is a void in his chest, a bloody, gaping wound where his heart should be, and his chest feels light but his throat feels heavy, his throat where all of that blood has gone, a permanent blockage, stopping some words and poisoning the rest.

He wants to speak. But he can’t.

Maybe he can, but he doesn’t know how.

Maybe he knows, but he doesn’t want to.

It’s contradictory.

It’s contradictory, like _boy_ and _beautiful,_ the way his coach says it, with that voice of his that always makes Hank tense. Always. Always.

Even when he’s twenty and it’s been years and he’s going to kill this man now, he knows he’s going to kill this man now, he hears his voice and he wants to run.

He wants to run, to tuck a ball into his hands and _go,_ because that’s the only thing he’s ever been good at, other than hurting and hurting and _hurting._

He is so tired of being angry.

He is so angry.

He is so tired of being angry.

There is an emptiness that has settled into his rib cage, a nothingness and a weight all at once, like he’s got cement lungs, or none at all. None at all. 

The empty travels over and into his fists, too, lands in his knuckles and stays there, makes every punch hit hard, the way only he can make them. He's never been the only fighter out there, but _damn_ , there’s something about him. There’s something about him.

He uses his body like a battering ram, and hopes it’s enough to stop being _beautiful._ He doesn’t want to be beautiful. He doesn’t want to be desired. He doesn’t want anybody wanting him. 

In his dreams, that fucking voice whispers _I need you_ , and sometimes Hank wakes up crying.

Sometimes.

Sometimes.

Eventually, he learns how to replace the tears with a bottle of whiskey on the bedside table, or a needle on the nights when there’s an ache so deep within him he thinks he’s ruined at a fucking atomic level, fucked up straight to the core.

He wouldn’t be surprised, not really. Nah, he wouldn’t be surprised.

See, he’s never been the good one. He’s never been the smart one, the promising one, the one with a future. That’s always been his brother, that’s always been Donny, and he’s okay with that. He's okay with that. He would do anything for him. He has done everything for him.

Everything except die.

Because a car skids into the sidewalk, and suddenly Hank is the only one with a future.

He’s not sure what to do with that. He has never been meant to live long. He has never been meant to live long - he’s supposed to burn bright and quick and then not at all, not at fucking all. There is nothing sustainable left in him. There is nothing to build on left in him. He's all used up.

He says that one night, half drunk and half dying, and there’s nobody there to tell him otherwise. He's scared them all away.

 _Good,_ he thinks. _Good._

It’s harder to be beautiful when you’re the only one around. It’s harder to be beautiful when you look at yourself and see a hollow, broken thing, a fucking empty bullet casing, a helmet snapped in two.

Maybe this is the real breaking point.

Maybe he hasn’t found it yet.

Maybe this is what he was made for: infinite pain. _Infinite fucking pain._

Why else can he take a hit like this, can spit out blood and come up swinging, can live through losing everything, having every cell in his fucking body, every thought in his goddamn head, _violated, torn up_ by someone he was supposed to be able to _trust_?

In what fucking universe is this supposed to bring him anything but pain?

Like some type of olive branch, fate sends Dawn his way, but Hank knows better than to place his salvation on the shoulders of something human. He's not in the business of recreating Atlas, not in the business of making martyrs.

When he was a boy, he did. 

When Hank was a boy, he believed in heroes. In the Justice fucking Society of America, in _Commander Steel,_ in _Wildcat._

With his chest pressed up against the mat, eyes squeezed shut, he would try to numb the feeling in his body, to block out his hearing, and he would imagine being rescued, would imagine somebody, _anybody_ , kicking down the door and taking him to safety, knocking out his coach with one bold punch and rattling off some bullshit about _justice_.

And it was okay, because it would never happen, because it kept him breathing on the nights when his fingernails dug into his skin and he felt like a used-up thing, because he was just a nobody, too poor and unremarkable for any kind of superhero to glance his way.

He was just a little kid trying to protect his brother. That's all he’s ever wanted to do.

He fails, and Donny dies, and Hank - Hank knows he isn’t good for much at all, but maybe he can do something. Use the life he knows he shouldn’t have. God might’ve made a mistake, might’ve killed the wrong brother, but what’s done is done. What’s done is done. Even the drugs can’t change that, though on his worst nights (or maybe his best, it feels so fucking good) his dealer almost has him believing they can.

He wants to be somebody Donny can be proud of, maybe. He's broken and barely holding himself together, but he wants to try to make him proud.

His heroes never saved him. Nobody ever has. He's not worth saving.

But there are kids out there, just _kids,_ just _scared little kids_ , who are. They _are_ , they fucking are, someone has to show them that they fucking are, and if nobody else does a damn thing and all he’s good for is hurting, he might as well take on the fucking job.

Hank is scarred and strong and brutal, but he’s never scared the Titans, not once. Until now.

A man two blocks away eyes up little girls in the park, burns evidence so that charges don’t stick, and Hank has his door down with one kick, and he hits, and hits, and _hits._

He doesn’t stop. He never stops. He doesn’t know how to.

Sometimes he’s not sure if he’s the boy on the floor or the hero he invented.

He looks in the mirror, sees the rage, knocks back another drink, and remembers.


End file.
